


Sex Sells

by Slimslash, without_me



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Early Days, First Time, Germany, Groping, Horny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slimslash/pseuds/Slimslash, https://archiveofourown.org/users/without_me/pseuds/without_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany is a lot different from Mississippi, Lance notices. Originally posted October 14, 2002.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex Sells

Lance spends a lot of time in Germany aching hard. It's embarrassing. He's seventeen years old, for God's sake. He could do without the reminder of what it was like in eighth grade, when he was constantly hard for no reason at all, in homeroom or on stage with the choir or anytime, anywhere. It was so embarrassing, back then, that he finally asked his mom if there was something wrong with him. He thought maybe he was a freak. Or a pervert. It was one of the most painful moments of his life. 

She didn't laugh at him, though. "Oh, honey. It's okay. It's completely normal." She gave him a little one-armed hug, around his shoulders, and didn't let go when he flinched. "It'll be better soon. Just hang in there, okay? It's just growing pains." 

And she was right, of course, it had gone away. But now. Now it's back, and worse than ever. 

It's not that he's seeking stuff out, because he really doesn't have to seek anything out here. Sex seems to be everywhere: on the television, on the street, practically in the air. 

  
***  


The guy and the girl jump into the U-Bahn just as the doors begin to close, and fall laughing into the seat across from Lance and Justin. A second later, they're whispering to each other in German and the girl is turning her face against his neck, smiling. The guy reaches into her jacket with one hand and runs his tongue against her lips, then they're kissing, and Lance doesn't need Justin's sharp elbow in his side to see that the guy is squeezing her breast. Lance hears her laugh softly and tries to look anywhere but at the place where their mouths are joined, where their tongues are flashing pink and wet in the bright subway light. She's not even that attractive, really, but he can see the guy's thumb stroking her nipple inside her jacket and he feels himself heating and hardening... 

Thank God, thank God, their stop is next. Lance jumps up and practically has to drag Justin off the train. Justin's eyes are still huge when they reach the street. 

"Let's not tell the others, okay?" Lance ignores Justin's look of incomprehension. "I just, I don't wanna talk about it with, you know. The others." 

It's not that, exactly. He doesn't want Chris to tease him about it, and he knows Chris _will_ tease him about it. He doesn't want to see JC smile secretly behind his magazine. But mostly he doesn't want his mom to know about it. It sounds stupid even when he thinks it to himself, but it's almost like he wants to protect her. Sex is something that should be kept private, not displayed out in public like it is here. He doesn't want her to worry, to be nervous. 

  
***  


They learn dances and the moves are suggestive, thrusting and grinding like he imagines strippers must dance. He's embarrassed to do the dances, first because they're so sexual, and second because he's not very good at them. JC and the others are so good at the dancing, they make it look just like Lance thinks it's supposed to look. Sexual, and sexy. Which is fine, if you like that kind of thing. But Lance is worried after every practice what his mom's going to think, so he tries to tone the dances down a little when he does them. He's surprised when he realizes that she doesn't seem upset by it, doesn't seem shocked or worried. 

Still, it doesn't seem right to him. 

  
***  


Even the smallest cities they go to seem to have sex shops and strip bars. He knows Joey and Chris and JC sneak out sometimes, and one weekend when his mom has flown home to see Stacy and his dad, JC asks if he wants to come with them. 

"Uh, no thanks," he stammers. "I have, um, homework." He tries to ignore the way his blood pounds in his dick at the thought of going to a strip bar with Joey and JC. 

JC smiles and nods. "Okay. But if you change your mind..." 

Lance forces himself to nod, and pulls a pillow into his lap as subtly as he can manage. 

  
***  


One morning before a photo shoot Lance finds a pile of clothes folded on his bed. Tucked between the lime green t-shirt and the thin khakis is a pair of thong underwear. He feels himself blushing hot, and he's intensely grateful that Justin's already dressed and gone. 

Lance gingerly rubs the silky material between his thumb and fingers. He knows men wear these here, they've all snickered about the shop window displays of men's underwear. Net pouches and tight black sparkly shorts and all kinds of things that remind him more of his cousin Dale's secret stash of Victoria's Secret catalogs back home than anything that any American man he knows would ever wear. 

He thinks about not putting it on, just wearing his normal underwear, but he's afraid Lou might know, somehow. And then he'd say something in front of everyone, God forbid, like the time Lance said he thought his pants were too tight, and Lou disagreed. Loudly. So in the end he just wears it. It feels strange when he puts it on, and he can't look at himself in the mirror without blushing, can't walk without feeling the elastic shifting against him back there, and his skin--his butt--rubbing against the khakis. 

He wonders if everyone found these on their beds today. At the shoot, he tries to look, but he can't tell. Not without being really obvious, anyway. And he knows he can never ask. 

  
***  


Sometimes the way the photographers look at Lance makes him uncomfortable. It's nothing he can put his finger on, exactly. Nothing he could tell his mom about, even if he wanted to. But something in the way they watch him, how they try to set his body, pose him. Or the tone in their voices, even when he can't understand what they're saying. 

JC and Justin are obviously used to it, used to being photographed. They put on the clothes and laugh and smile on cue, practically climbing on each other when the photographer tells them to get closer together. 

Joey hasn't done it before, but he handles it fine, like he handles everything fine. He goes along with whatever the photographer asks, and he's graceful, so graceful that he doesn't have to try twice when the photographer asks him to jump in the air in some strange pose. He just does it, then rolls his eyes at Lance behind the photographer's back. 

Chris may tease Lance mercilessly about not wanting his picture taken, but he doesn't like the photo sessions any better than Lance does. Lance can tell by the way he watches the photographers as they work with the rest of them. He horses around just like always, but his eyes are deadly serious. 

Sometimes, knowing Chris is watching that closely makes Lance almost as nervous as the photographers do. 

  
***  


They have hundreds of photo shoots. Lance wonders what happens to all the pictures, because it doesn't seem like there could be that many magazines, but Lou says they're being used in countries all over the world. 

One day Chris comes bouncing into Lance and Justin's hotel room crowing with laughter, a magazine clutched in his hand. It's a German teen magazine, Lance can see that; Backstreet is on the front cover and there's something about NSYNC in the upper right-hand corner. He doesn't see what's so special about it until Chris opens it up to the article about them, then flips to the next page. "Liebes-Stellungen," it says, and God, it must mean something like "Sex Positions," because there are pictures, photographs of a naked guy and a girl and they're... 

Chris howls as Lance recoils in horror from the pictures, an explicit two-page spread showing all these different positions, positions Lance has never even heard of or thought about. Justin's grabbing for the magazine, eyes wide, so Lance gets out of the way, grateful for an escape. 

Later, he finds the magazine crumpled between the wall and his bed, and he pulls it out gently after Justin falls asleep; slips it under his pajama top and takes it down the hall to the bathroom. In the harsh fluorescent light he examines the pictures, ignoring the way his skin heats and prickles. He stares for a long time at the picture of a blonde girl twisting face-down on the mattress, her legs spread, her mouth open like she's moaning, a skinny guy with short hair holding her hips from behind and kissing the back of her neck. 

Lance turns off the bathroom light before he touches himself, pressing his back against the cold tile wall and not thinking about anything--anything or anyone--when he comes. 

  
***  


That's another thing. Sharing rooms. 

Oh, he understands the reason for it. This tour must be costing a ton even with all of them doubling up, and he's sure the little venues they're playing can't be bringing in that much--and it could be worse, he could be rooming with his mom, instead of her sharing with Justin's mom; that would just be _impossible_ \--but still, he's always had his own room before. And this is just, well, _awkward_ doesn't really begin to cover it. 

It's bad enough that he has to sneak into the bathroom to touch himself. That's uncomfortable, and embarrassing, and he just knows it's only a matter of time before someone needs to pee at a really inopportune moment. 

What's worse, though, is Justin. Lance would've thought, both of them coming from the South and all, they'd have similar attitudes about things like privacy. But then again, Justin is about as different from any of the kids Lance grew up with as he could possibly be. Maybe it's having worked on MMC, maybe it's just how he's always been, but Justin doesn't seem to have any concept of bodily modesty. None. He'd wander around naked if Lance hadn't spent the first week in Europe blushing nonstop and then finally put his foot down. So now Justin at least puts on sweatpants when Lance is around. 

But that doesn't stop him from jerking off in the room. Every night. As soon as he goes to bed. With the _lights on_ , for heaven's sake. Lance will be working on his homework, and Justin will say goodnight, get in his bed, and Lance won't even have time to turn the page before the sheets start rustling and Justin's breath starts coming faster. 

It doesn't usually take very long; Lance supposes he should be grateful for that. But still, it's pretty near impossible to concentrate on American history when all he can hear is Justin panting. 

If he could just be grossed out by it, it wouldn't be so bad. But he's not. He doesn't know what he _is_ , really-- _turned on_ makes it sound like he wants to have sex with Justin, and he doesn't, he really doesn't--Justin's _fifteen_ , for one thing, even if he doesn't look it, and besides, Lance doesn't--he really tries not to think about guys that way. But whatever he is, grossed out isn't it. 

It's just one more thing. One more sex thing. One more thing that keeps him thinking about sex every minute, every second. Not sex with Justin, not--no. Just sex in general. 

He wonders, sometimes, what the other guys do. Chris usually gets the single, so that makes it easy for him, though sometimes JC claims it and Chris and Joey room together. Lance sometimes daydreams about asking for the single, but what could he say? _I want some privacy to jerk off._ Yeah. Not in this lifetime. All the dingy bathrooms in Europe aren't as bad as that. 

And the fact that he's thinking about the other guys jerking off is just one more example of how he's got sex on the brain these days. He's supposed to _work_ with these guys, not think about them naked. 

  
***  


He hates the way he blushes when Chris teases him about sex. One day they're in the drugstore looking for cough drops and Chris shoves a box of condoms in his face. 

"Look, Bass! Ever seen a dick with a smiley face before?" The condom box is black, with a little cartoon dick on it juggling fruit and grinning. 

Lance feels himself reddening. "Leave me alone, Chris," he mumbles, and tries to duck out of Chris's reach. 

Chris isn't willing to let him go so easily. He grabs Lance by the elbow. "What's your problem? It's just a penis, man! You do know what that is, right?" He leers at Lance. His voice is loud in the narrow aisle, and Lance can feel the Germans looking over at them disapprovingly. 

Lance jerks his arm away and tries to laugh. "Pervert." 

  
***  


But deep down, Lance thinks maybe he's the pervert. Because now it's like he thinks about sex even when there's nothing to _make_ him think about sex. He understands why it happens when he walks by the strip clubs behind the train station, and he feels the pounding beat of the music pouring out of the door onto the sidewalk. That's sexual. 

But not other stuff. Stuff like JC's hair, wet from the rain after they get caught in a downpour. There's nothing sexy about that, really, but something about the way the water drops sparkle in his dark hair makes Lance's throat dry up. 

Or when he's behind Joey on the stairs, and Joey's carrying a suitcase in each hand, and Lance can see the muscles bulging in his arms and legs. It's not like Joey is some kind of Greek god or whatever, but Lance gets out of breath looking at him and it's not because of the four flights of stairs he has to climb. 

Sometimes the slap of his own shoes on the wet pavement sounds dirty to him. 

  
***  


It's always wet in Germany. Damp and cold. Even when the sun is shining, as soon as Lance goes indoors or into the shade his hands are cold again. It's impossible for him to keep them warm. 

At night while he's waiting for Justin to fall asleep, he presses his hands tight between his thighs to warm up his fingers. That way when he sneaks out to the bathroom, his hands aren't quite so cold when he slides them down into the front of his pajama pants. 

Other times, when they're out performing or traveling, he finds himself shivering and can't stop. Even in the down jacket his mom bought him in Hamburg, he feels the dampness in his bones and can't get his hands to stop shaking. 

Riding back from a performance late one night, he's in the back seat of the van with JC and Justin. He's cold and wet and more than half asleep; they were up before 5 AM and on the road not much later. Sixteen hours and three performances later, there's still an hour to go before they get back to the hotel. 

Justin's asleep on the other side of JC, and Lance thinks maybe JC is asleep too. Then he feels JC shift, warm against his side, the heavy weight of his head dropping slowly to Lance's shoulder. Lance's breath catches in his throat as JC's hand falls against his. It seems accidental--probably--must be. The motion of the van bounces their hands against each other a little, and Lance feels JC's warm skin shift against his fingers. Lance is sure JC's asleep until he feels JC tilt his head up to whisper into Lance's ear. 

"Is this okay?" 

JC's breath is hot against his cheek, and Lance shivers. He has to clear his throat before he can croak out an answer. "Yeah." 

JC settles back against Lance's side, resting his head on Lance's shoulder, and slides his warm fingers around Lance's wrist. Lance spends the rest of the ride praying JC's hand won't slip any further, to where he'd feel Lance's erection jutting up in his lap. 

But at least he stops shivering for a while. 

  
***  


Joey'll talk about anything, anytime. 

Not inappropriately, like, he's always polite when Lance's mom or Justin's mom is around. But when it's just the guys, Joey doesn't bat an eyelash about revealing things Lance turns scarlet just _hearing_. 

It doesn't help that sex is the other guys' favorite topic of conversation. Lance thinks people in Clinton must be pretty darn different from people in the rest of the world. He can't imagine any of his friends sitting around and talking--in detail--about the girl in Mannheim who liked to have her nipples pinched, "really hard--and she did this thing with her tongue," complete with gestures, "that, man, I tell you I saw _stars_ \--" 

Or maybe it's just Lance who's different. 

When Joey starts talking about the girl licking his ass, Lance stands up, mumbling something that doesn't make sense even to him, but he gets out of the room fast enough that he can't see if they're laughing at him. 

That night, in the bathroom, he tries really hard not to think about Joey. It doesn't work very well. 

  
***  


Joey's totally cool. He can fit in with anyone--parents, businesspeople, he's great with the fans and he's just all-around fun. Lance wishes he were more like Joey. 

JC's amazing on stage, at photo shoots--anytime there's someone telling him what to do, basically. When he's on his own, he sometimes seems kind of lost. 

Lance probably likes that more than he should. 

They're so busy all the time, Lance rarely has a chance to daydream. But every once in a while, when he can't get comfortable enough to sleep in the van, or when they have a break between performances, he lets his thoughts wander. He thinks about home, usually, though he has to be careful not to do that when he's feeling too sad, because it just makes things worse. 

Sometimes he thinks about JC. 

With the way he's got sex on the brain, he supposes he should be grateful he doesn't have sex fantasies about JC. What he does fantasize, though, is bad enough. 

JC's so much better than he is at singing and dancing, there's no way Lance could ever measure up. So his fantasies don't have anything to do with performing. No, they're much more pathetic than that. 

He took a psych class in high school. Nothing fancy, just a lot of basic stuff. But he thinks his dreams of saving JC from being beaten up by some punked-out teenagers in an alley--the ground slick with rain, of course; even in his fantasies of Germany it's damp--probably say something about him. The ones where it's one of the BMG people who's holding JC by the shoulders, standing too close, in a room that's supposed to be empty except Lance just happened to wander by--he's really not sure what to make of those. 

All of them end the same way, though. JC's arms tight around Lance, hugging him, both their bodies shaking slightly with the intensity of JC's relief. 

  
***  


Lou makes them go to tanning beds because there's no sun in Germany in the wintertime, and he wants them to still look like they come from Orlando. Lance doesn't mind much. He misses the sun, and he knows that without it he looks like the whitest white boy on the planet. Plus, it's a few minutes, at least, when he can really feel warm. 

One day at rehearsal Lou pulls Lance aside and asks him what he wears in the tanning bed. Lance blushes and mumbles, "My swim trunks. They're like shorts. Um. Why?" 

Lou pokes at his chest with a fat finger. "Get some Speedos, Lance. Or go naked, I don't care. But we've got spring photo shoots coming up, and you boys are gonna be out on the beach. You don't wanna have tan lines when you put on that German bathing suit, do you?" He grins widely at Lance and raises an eyebrow. 

Lance shudders, then shakes his head, no. 

He doesn't like the thought of going naked into the tanning bed after one of the other guys, so he asks his mom to get him a Speedo. It's navy with a green stripe. It's like what all the European guys wear at the indoor swimming pools they've been to, the tiny little bathing suits that crack Justin and him up, especially when they see them on middle-aged men with beer bellies. 

He's careful not to let the other guys see him in it, wrapping a towel tight around his waist until he's behind the closed door of the booth. He sees in the mirror that the shape of his dick is totally visible through the material. It feels like his ass is hanging out the back. But he's surprised how much he likes the way it feels when he wears it in the tanning bed, all snug and tight and warm. 

  
***  


"Hairiest?" Justin is laughing, already pointing at Joey. 

"No, man, it's Chris!" Joey's drunk and giggling, rolling on the hotel room floor. "Chris has to shave twice a day if we have a night performance!" 

Chris shakes his head and takes another long pull from his beer. "What can I say? I'm a man, dude." He grins at Joey. "But you're hairier... other places." 

Justin and Lance choke with laughter, falling against each other. It's a Saturday night and--for once--there are no performances and no moms around. After two whole beers, Lance is pretty drunk. But he's still sober enough to know that this is a dangerous game. 

"Okay, okay, I'm the hairiest. My turn." Joey looks up at the ceiling as if he's thinking, then grins lewdly and says, "Jerks off the most." 

For a moment Lance can't breathe, can't bear to look around the group, but then he realizes that everyone's laughing and pointing at Justin. And Justin is laughing too, so hard that he's having trouble speaking. 

"No way, man, I know I don't do it more than JC!" Lance whips his head around and JC is laughing even harder than Justin, shaking his head. 

"It's you, Justin, you know it's you!" JC always wheezes when he laughs, a high-pitched giggle that just sets the rest of them off even worse. 

"Dude, it's definitely you," Joey says to Justin. "Look at those calluses on your hand!" 

Lance is so glad it wasn't him. 

"Okay, fine, it's me, my turn," says Justin. 

"No way, Justin, you just went!" yells Chris, pushing him over on the floor. Justin lies there and giggles. "Joey and I tied for hairiest, so it's my turn." Justin waves his hand, doesn't stop laughing. 

Chris looks around with an evil smile. "Still a virgin." 

Everyone looks at Lance. 

He feels himself blushing, painfully red. He looks down at his hands. Justin pokes him in the side. "Tell 'em, man," he whispers. 

Lance shakes his head. "It's. That's personal." 

Chris whoops. "Like this whole game isn't personal! That's the whole _point_ , Lance." 

Lance takes a deep breath and doesn't look up. " _Tell_ them," Justin says again, louder this time. 

"I'm. Actually, um, I'm not. A virgin." Lance hates himself for telling Justin anything, he's so sorry he ever told him about chorus camp and Betty Lynn Cunningham. He glances up at the other guys and takes in their surprised faces. It makes him a little mad. "What, you can't believe I've had sex?" 

"No, Lance, we believe you," JC is nodding, and Joey and Chris join in. "Just, we didn't know. That's all." 

Joey reaches over and gives Lance a noogie. "What was her name, man? When and where? We want details." 

Lance ducks a little and grabs Joey's wrist, pulling it away from his head. "Her name was Betty Lynn. And the rest is private. Okay?" He smiles faintly, and nods at Justin. "I guess it's all you this time, Justin." 

Justin grins. "Yeah, I'm still a virgin. Not ashamed of it either. I'm savin' myself." Chris snorts with laughter and Justin leans over to smack him in the head. "Okay if I take my turn now, you cheater?" 

Chris nods. Justin puts his chin in his hand. "Hmmmmm. Okay." He closes his eyes like he's thinking hard. Finally he opens them, grinning. 

"Biggest dick." 

"Whooooooo! Good one!" Joey says. 

Lance looks around the room. He's seen all their dicks, of course. Justin's more than anyone's, since they room together. He's never noticed who has the biggest, though. 

JC coughs a little. "Um. Lance." 

Lance stares at him, gaping. When did JC-- 

"Oh, yeah. Definitely Lance." Chris says, as if it's a no-brainer. 

Joey and Justin nod in agreement, and Lance stares at the floor, praying to disappear. 

  
***  


One evening after rehearsal Justin comes racing into their room, tearing off his clothes and talking so fast Lance can't even understand what he's saying. Finally Lance figures it out. Lynn and his mom are going to a movie together, and Lynn told Justin he could go out dancing with Chris, Joey, and JC. 

Justin is bouncing with excitement as he rips open his suitcase, looking for something to wear. "Go ask your mom, Lance! I bet she'll let you come too!" 

Lance doesn't want to go, but he doesn't know how to tell Justin that. He walks slowly down the hallway, hoping his mom will say no, will tell him to stay in and do his math homework. 

But she doesn't. 

"Of course, honey. Lynn talked to Chris, and she knows where they're going. Just don't stay out too late, okay? You boys have an appearance in the morning." 

Lance nods dumbly and his mom tells him to have fun. 

It's not so bad, though. Back in the room, Justin is happy Lance is going with them, and sets out to find him something to wear. 

"Man, your clothes are so dorky. You need something hot." Justin's practically talking to himself as he turns from Lance's suitcase to his own. "Here, try this on." Justin pushes a t-shirt into Lance's hands. It's silky and thin, a kind of brownish-bronze color that Lance would never think to wear. It's Justin's, though, and it's a little snug on Lance. It pulls across his chest, and dang, you can practically see his nipples through the material. Lance thinks it's tacky, but Justin insists it looks good. "No, it's hot, Lance, you should totally wear it." 

Justin's just a kid, but he knows more about clothes than Lance ever hopes to. So Lance pulls on his khakis and threads a black belt through the loops and he's ready to go. 

  
***  


The club is smaller than Lance expected. Crowded. Loud. The whole place smells like stale beer and smoke, which kind of makes him feel sick at first, but after a while he stops noticing so much. He keeps being afraid someone's going to burn him with a cigarette, too, but none of the other guys seem to be worried, so he keeps his mouth shut. _What can't be cured must be endured_ , he can hear his mother saying, and he thinks that's probably not the best attitude in the world for what's supposed to be a fun night out. 

After a couple of beers, he still doesn't think the club is as great as Justin seems to, but he's not having a bad time either. Somehow he finds himself in the middle of the dance floor, with a girl almost as tall as he is smiling at him and moving her body against his. His natural reaction is to explain he can't dance, excuse himself--he's even rehearsing the German words in his head--but then again, aside from the girl (Margot? He thinks that's what she said), nobody's looking at him. And it's warm in the club, warmer on the dance floor, and he doesn't have to _dance_ , really, just move a little. 

It feels pretty good, actually. The music is pounding in his ears and she's still smiling, moving her shoulders so her breasts shift under her blouse. He can see the points of her nipples and he makes himself look up, look at her face instead of down there. Stacy used to gripe about the guys who'd never look her in the eye, but Margot doesn't seem to mind; her own eyes keep drifting down, like she wants him to look, wants him to _want_. 

The music changes, a slower song, and couples are touching now, dancing close, their arms around each other. He doesn't know this girl. Back home he'd never slow dance with someone he'd just met. Then again, as he gets reminded about a hundred times a day, he's not home. He hesitates only a second before resting his hands lightly at her waist, and sure enough, she moves closer, swaying with the sultry beat. He can smell her perfume, even in the thick air of the club, and her dark hair brushes against his cheek. She presses closer against him, and he feels her breasts against his chest, sliding against the silky fabric of Justin's t-shirt. When the music speeds up again, she stays close, so their bodies keep touching as they dance. Her hips are brushing up against him, circling suggestively and oh God, he's getting hard, really hard; she's gonna feel it. 

He tries to move away, but her hand is on his hip and she's pulling him closer, tilting her head, smiling a little. She looks like... he can't place it. She reminds him of something, someone. But he's not thinking about that, he's thinking about the heat curling through him, the ache, the way his skin--not just his dick, but all over--is starting to feel too tight, too sensitive. Focusing on the stale taste of beer in his mouth isn't enough of a distraction. Neither is trying to remember the steps he still doesn't know well enough for tomorrow's show. 

"Entschuldigung," he finally stammers. He doesn't wait for her answer, doesn't--can't afford to--stop, just turns and makes his way blindly through the pack of bodies, not thinking anything beyond _out_. 

He's trying for an exit, but his trajectory puts him in the narrow hallway leading to the men's room. That's okay too. At least he can get away from the crowd, maybe have a moment's privacy. 

He pushes the door open and stumbles into the dark little room. There's almost as much smoke here as in the club, although the music is muffled. A few men stand before the urinals against one wall, but Lance hurries past them and pushes open the door of a stall. It's not too disgusting, although at this point it wouldn't really matter much to him if it were, and he steps inside and leans back against the door. 

God. _God._ That girl, that Margot, she hadn't even been _doing_ anything, and he's out of control. He feels the blood pounding through his body, and he digs his fingernails into his palms to try to make himself stop shaking. 

"What is _wrong_ with me?" He doesn't mean to say it out loud, but the words are in his mouth and then out, and he almost chokes on them. He presses his fists against his eyes and forces himself to breathe, trying to ignore the smoke and the other smells. _Calm down. Calm down._

He's still hard. Completely hard, his dick pressing up against his fly, so solid that he's afraid the teeth of his zipper will leave a mark. He drags in another breath and tries to think of unsexy things. He aches to touch himself, to just slide his fingers down and bring himself off, but he can't stand the thought of doing it here, in this nasty bathroom, provoked by nothing more than a stranger's touch. 

The door slams as another person goes out, and it sounds to Lance like he's alone in the bathroom. He tilts his head back against the stall door and closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, trying to clear his mind of anything that might make this situation worse. Finally, his erection begins to subside. _Thank God._

A minute later, he hears the door swing open again, and footsteps cross the tiles to enter the stall next to him. He pushes himself away from the door and he's about to turn around and leave when he hears it, a low, sexy growl that sounds somehow familiar. He pauses with his hand on the door to his stall, and he thinks for a second he hears someone whispering in German. Then he hears that noise again, and he knows. 

_JC._

All the air goes out of Lance's lungs and he reaches blindly for the wall. JC is in the next stall. Making that noise. And someone, some man, is in there with him, whispering.... 

Lance wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here, hearing this. He needs to get out. But his feet aren't working. And, more than that; his dick is hard again. Harder than before, if that's possible. 

He's not going anywhere. 

He puts one hand over his mouth to keep himself from making a sound, and leans his head against the wall. JC is making noises, little whimpers and moans, and the other man is still whispering. Then Lance hears JC groan, and despite himself he wants to know what's happening. He leans over slowly, soundlessly, and peers under the dividing wall. 

JC's on his knees. Lance recognizes his pants and shoes. 

It takes all Lance's self-control not to run then. If he can recognize JC's shoes, JC can recognize his, can know--will know--that Lance was there. That Lance was listening. To him. 

But JC's busy with other things. 

Lance hears the rustle of fabric. A zipper being opened. Oh God, oh God. 

It's not that he didn't know. Or, well. He _didn't_ know about JC. At least, he didn't know for sure. But he knew what men, what some men, did. In bathrooms. Together. There was a time, a few years back, not in Clinton itself but in Jackson, two guys were arrested for--they called it public indecency. Lance was twelve, and his mom wouldn't let him use public restrooms at all for a while. He'd never known _exactly_ what those guys had done, but all the kids whispered about it at school, and Lance had figured it had to be... something like this. 

Only, not like this at all. Because this is JC, this is his friend, this is-- 

This is the wet sound of skin on skin. This is heavy breaths, not just the stranger's, but JC's, too, breathing deep through his nose like he does when he's rehearsing. This is JC moaning, low in his throat, another shift of an unknown body, the guttural consonants of whispered German, too soft and fast for Lance to make out even a word or two. 

This is hot. 

Lance doesn't want to run anymore. He wants to vanish. Sink through the grimy floor or just evaporate, _gone_. He's pretty much stopped breathing, his heart pounding as he listens, his mind filling in the images that his eyes can't see. JC's head moving, his lips stretched and wet. The stranger--blond, Lance thinks, and not too tall, but well-built in the way so many of the guys here are--slouched forward, his hands stroking JC's hair. 

When Lance hears a different sound--another zipper--it takes him a second to know what to make of it. And then the rhythm starts, almost in time with the breathing but not quite, and Lance bites down hard on the heel of his hand. 

He trembles, standing there, too terrified to speak or move. He listens as JC sucks the stranger, as JC strokes himself. 

JC moans when he comes, choking slightly, and Lance gasps, his vision going white as his own body jerks, soaking his shorts. It's only then that he realizes he's had his hand clenched tight around himself through his pants. 

Desperation spurs him to action. He manages to get his pants open before they get too wet, and in the awkward dance of taking his shorts off without dragging his clothes on the floor, whatever else passes between JC and the other man escapes Lance's notice. He just hopes they were similarly distracted. 

He glances back under the divider before he leaves the stall, making sure he's alone in the bathroom. He is. His shorts get stuffed hastily in the trash bin while he tries really hard not to notice what else is in there, and he scrubs his hands under the taps before wiping them dry on his pantlegs, hoping the dampness will disguise any other stains. 

Back in the club, he tries to catch his breath and calm his heart, still hammering in his chest. Leaning against a wall, he looks around for the others. For JC. He catches sight of Chris and Justin, still grooving on the dance floor. Joey's out there too, dancing with a redhead. He's got her pulled tight against him, one hand inside her sweater, and she's smiling up into his face, flushed with excitement. Lance lets his eyes drift over the crowd, and finally he sees JC talking with a guy by the bar, his eyes crinkling shut as he grins. Lance stares, can't help himself, and he doesn't know whether it's just him, or if JC's mouth really does look... used. Swollen. The man's hair is brown, not blond, but the way he looks at JC tells Lance who it is. 

JC looks over at Lance and quirks one corner of his lips up in a half-smile. Lance doesn't know how to respond, so he looks down at his own feet. He doesn't realize JC's coming over until his shoes come into view. Lance recognizes them with a jolt, and jerks his head up to meet JC's gaze. 

"Having fun?" JC smiles at Lance, and all Lance can think is _his mouth, it was, he was...._

Lance can barely gather his thoughts enough to respond. "Uh. Yeah, I guess. Kinda." He's shaking, and he presses his back harder against the wall to try to steady himself. 

A look of concern crosses JC's face and he reaches out to touch Lance on the shoulder. Lance flinches a little and swallows hard. _Not gonna throw up. Not. Not not not._ He takes a deep breath. "Actually. I think, I think I need to leave. I need to go back to the hotel." 

Now JC looks worried. "Yeah? You want me to get the other guys?" 

Lance presses his lips together and shakes his head. "No. No. I'm fine. I just. I need to--" he makes a gesture, waves his hand in the air. "I need to breathe. Or something." He feels hot tears gathering behind his eyes and he needs out of this club, now. Right now. 

He pushes away from the wall and starts to make his way toward the door, one foot in front of the other, stepping carefully through the crowd. JC is right beside him. 

"I'm just, I'm gonna let Chris know, okay? I'll be right back." Lance doesn't answer, just keeps moving forward, making his way through the mass of writhing bodies. Out. He needs to get out, then he can breathe. Then he can think. 

When he hits the door, the cold night air slaps him in the face and he gulps it deep into his lungs, ignoring the way it burns his throat as it goes down. After the close, smoky atmosphere of the club, the bathroom, it feels good to breathe, even if it hurts. After a second he looks down the street, trying to remember which direction they came from, and then takes off toward the right. 

By the time he notices the footsteps hurrying behind him they're right upon him. It's JC, panting from running, looking scared and a little mad. "Lance, what are you doing? It's too late to be walking around alone out here. You can't just take off like that." 

Lance can't respond, can't stop shaking. He stares at JC. 

"Come on, you're going the wrong way, anyway." JC's voice is gentler now. "Let's get a cab." 

Lance finds his voice. "No. I don't, I need to be out, I need air." But he turns around and starts walking back up the street, past the club again with the pounding beat coming from behind the door. JC stays right with him. 

"Okay, fine. I'm coming with you, then. You really can't walk around here alone at night, Lance. Your mom would kill us if she knew." 

And then Lance wants to laugh, because, yeah. His mom would kill them? What if she knew about JC, what JC had been doing? 

What if she knew what Lance had done? What he was doing now? Walking around in the dark without any underwear on, with a guy who just blew a stranger in a filthy bathroom? 

With JC. 

Oh, God, with JC. 

JC steps closer to him, puts an arm around his shoulders as they walk. Lance tries not to flinch away. "Is it, did you--" JC starts, and Lance feels his stomach lurch again. _He knows._

"Did you have too much to drink?" JC finishes, gently. "It's easy to do, German beer is strong, if you're not used to--it's okay, we all drink too much sometimes, if you're sick, it's nothing to be--" 

Lance shakes his head. "No." He should be saying yes. He's drunk, that's a good excuse, if JC doesn't know Lance saw--being drunk would be a good reason for him to be acting strange. But the easy lies don't come. "No, I only--I'm okay. Not drunk," he says. "It was just..." He takes a careful breath. Now that he's been outside a few minutes his skin is starting to chill in the wet air. "It was hot." He's shivering as he says it. "Smoky. Too much smoke." That's only partly a lie. 

But JC's nodding, walking close to him, rubbing his hand-- _his hand, his hand, did he, did he touch the German guy with that_ \--down Lance's arm. "It is hard to breathe in those clubs. It's probably lousy for our voices. But, you know." He shrugs. 

_Yeah, I know._ Lance shuts his eyes tight for a few steps, forcing back tears. JC's breath smells minty, and somehow that's just the last straw. Not that Lance wants to smell... whatever... on JC, it's just--the _calculatedness_ of it. "Do you do this a lot?" he blurts. And then he honestly does think his heart's going to stop. Oh God. Did he really just ask that? 

"Do I..." JC hesitates. "Do I--go to clubs? You know when I, when we go out, Lance. Why are you asking that?" His arm is still around Lance's shoulders, but something's changed. Lance clenches his fists tight, digging his nails into his palms, but it doesn't hurt anywhere near enough. 

"Do you," he says, quiet but clear. This part of the street is deserted; there's no traffic noise, they're a ways from the clubs now. Almost back to the hotel. "Do you do it every time you go out? Or just sometimes?" He turns to face JC for a second, but he can't bear it for long, looks back down at the wet pavement in front of him, the streetlights glinting off shallow puddles. 

"Lance--" 

"You should be more careful." Lance's voice is rising now. He tries to keep it down. Keep control. "You never know. What if--what if Lou had been in the bathroom?" The idea of Lou in a club like that is almost laughable, but it could happen. "Or one of the guys from the label? What--what would--" 

JC's hand isn't on his shoulder anymore. 

JC isn't even next to him. Lance has kept walking, but now he stops, turns. JC's a few paces behind, staring blankly at his hands, held in front of him, like they might somehow speak, offer an answer. 

Lance doesn't want to walk away, can't, and so he waits, and finally JC lifts his eyes. They're dark, unreadable. But JC's lips are tight, and Lance sees a hurt look coming over JC's face like a bruise. "You--" JC bites his lip. "You were... watching me?" 

_I'm sorry_ , Lance wants to say. _I take it back. I wish I'd never found out._

Instead he shakes his head. "No. God. No. I didn't mean to--I was in the other stall." He pulls his arms around himself, freezing now in Justin's t-shirt. He should've worn a jacket, but he'd thought they'd be leaving in a cab. "I saw your shoes." 

JC blushes dark and looks away, a muscle working in the side of his face. "You could have left." His voice is cold and Lance wants to run away, or step closer, but he just stands where he is. Helpless. This isn't how it's supposed to be. 

Finally he shakes his head. "I couldn't leave. I was feeling... sick. I was trying to..." There's really no delicate way to say that he was waiting to lose his hard-on so he could leave the bathroom. There's no way to tell JC that without telling him everything. "I'm sorry. I wish... I wish I hadn't been there." 

JC shows his teeth, but it's not really a smile. "Me too." And Lance just wants to die. 

Lance is shaking, now, and this has been pretty much the worst night of his life so far. He starts to leave, to turn around and keep walking to the hotel, when he hears JC's voice again. "So, are you gonna tell Lou?" 

Lance spins around and stares. JC looks angry and defensive, like he's bracing himself for the answer, and Lance can't believe JC would _think_ that. "No. Of course not. Lord, JC. Why would you even..." He shakes his head. "No." 

JC draws a harsh breath and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Of course not. You wouldn't lower yourself to that, huh?" He sounds derisive, and Lance can't figure out what, exactly, is happening in this conversation. After a second, JC looks at him again, and when he speaks his voice still sounds hard. 

"To answer your question, no. I don't do that every time we go out. But sometimes I do, because it feels good." He frowns, as if looking for the right words. "I'm sorry if that grosses you out, or makes you mad, or if you think less of me because I want sex sometimes. Not everyone can be as pure as you." 

Lance shakes his head. "As... _what_?" he asks stupidly. 

JC gives a sharp little bark of laughter and crosses his arms over his chest. "Come on, Lance. You think I haven't seen how you look when the topic of sex comes up? Like it's the most disgusting idea in the world? I'm sorry, but not everybody feels that way. Some people actually think about it from time to time. Some people actually _want_ it. And, yeah, some people want it with other guys." He holds his head up, a challenge. 

Lance stands a moment, staring. Dumbfounded. That's the word, he thinks, like this is some kind of crazy vocabulary test. "You," he manages, but that's not right. "I--" He shakes his head. JC's words keep playing back in his mind, _Some people think about it. Some people want it._

He can't help himself. He feels the laughter start to rise inside his chest, and he tries to keep it back, knows it's the totally wrong time, wrong place, but it just won't stop. He's always prided himself on being able to hide his reactions, say the right thing until he can get somewhere private to laugh or cry or whatever. _Be a gentleman, Lance_ , he can hear his mother saying, and that pushes him over the edge. He shakes his head, helpless to explain as the giggles overtake him, loud and inappropriate. "I--you think I--" JC's staring at him like he's lost his mind. He's probably right. 

But it doesn't matter whether JC thinks he's crazy or rude or anything else. JC thinks he doesn't _think_ about it? Doesn't _want_ it? Lance staggers across the sidewalk to lean against the wall of the building they're standing beside, his knees weak from laughter. 

JC looks confused. And irritated. Lance bites the inside of his mouth, as hard as he can, trying to get some semblance of control. "I don't--God--I think about--" 

_I was in there because I was afraid I was gonna come in my pants, out in the middle of the dance floor._

_I probably wouldn't have, not from that girl, even with her breasts and her soft skin and the sweet smell of her hair. She made me hot, but not so hot I couldn't walk away._

_I came in that nasty bathroom, with my eyes closed, listening to you. Imagining you. You think I don't **want**? _

He can't say any of that. Won't. He clenches his jaw harder, teeth grinding into sensitive flesh, and finally manages to swallow his giggles and slow his breathing a little. "Just because I don't talk about it all the time, doesn't mean I don't want it, JC." 

The words come out soft. Small. They fall away into the night, and JC's just standing there, looking at him. Not saying anything. 

When the tears start to slide down Lance's cheeks he thinks maybe the laughter wasn't so bad. He wraps his arms around himself and swallows hard, turning his head away. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "I didn't mean to, to listen. I just--I didn't mean to. I didn't know." 

JC sighs, and Lance realizes he's stepped closer. JC doesn't touch him, but when JC speaks again, the voice is right there. Lance can smell mint. 

"I know you didn't. It's not, I'm not... angry. Just embarrassed, I guess." JC's voice is quiet. "Are you okay?" 

Lance draws a breath to say _yes_ , but ends up shaking his head. "I don't think so," he whispers, pushing away from the cold wall and wiping his face against his shoulder. He hugs himself tighter, shivering. 

JC puts a tentative hand on Lance's shoulder. "Come on, let's go back to the hotel. We can talk there. Or I can find your mom, if you'd rather. But you need to warm up." 

  
***  


When they reach the hotel, JC asks him again. "Do you want me to look for your mom?" 

Lance shudders. "No. God. I mean, no, thank you." He bites the inside of his cheek again as they go up in the tiny elevator. Maybe JC wants to get rid of him. It's certainly been a lovely evening so far. "I can just go to my room, go to bed, you know. It's okay." 

JC looks at him evenly. "I don't think Justin's back yet." 

Lance just looks back at him. _So?_

"I think it might be better if you came to my room until Justin gets back," JC says carefully. 

Lance almost starts to giggle again when he realizes JC doesn't trust him to be alone. This is becoming more humiliating by the minute. 

But Lance doesn't particularly want to be alone, either. So he follows JC to his door, and into the room. 

When JC flips on the lamp, Lance sees there's only one bed. "You're not sharing?" 

"No, I called the single tonight." JC's by the window, turning up the radiator. Lance is shivering harder now that he's inside than he was when he was standing on the street. Once the heat is on, JC goes to his suitcase and pulls out a flannel bathrobe. "Here, put this on." 

Lance starts to pull the robe on over his--Justin's--shirt, but as he puts one arm into the sleeve he realizes the shirt is wet from the damp air outside, and probably sweaty from the heat of the club. He hesitates a second, but God, it's not like he hasn't changed in front of JC a million times by now. 

It's not the same, though. Now he's _aware_ in a way he wasn't before. Not that he thinks JC's going to jump him or something stupid like that. More the opposite, really. Lance knows he's not built like the other guys. He pulls off the shirt and quickly slides into the robe, trying not to look at JC, trying not to see whether JC's looking at him. "Thanks," he says, pulling the soft fabric tight around himself. He should probably take off his pants, too; they're almost as damp as the shirt, but he'll take pneumonia over that option in a heartbeat. 

JC steps closer. Not that there's much closer or farther to choose from, Lance thinks; the whole room's about the size of his mom's closet back home. JC puts a hand tentatively on Lance's shoulder, and Lance finally turns to face him. 

"You gonna be okay?" JC asks. "You should take your shoes off. They're wet. You can't get warm if your feet are cold." 

Lance smiles, grateful for another moment's small talk. Grateful for something to do with his body. He toes his shoes off, then sits on the edge of the narrow bed to peel off his damp socks. Looking at his feet brings it all back, though, and he takes a careful breath. "I'm sorry," he says, his head still down. "I didn't--I shouldn't--I should've. Left. Let you know I was there. Not listened. I don't know." He sniffles, mostly from the cold; he doesn't want to cry again. 

He hears JC sigh, and the bed shifts as JC sits down next to him. "It's okay," he says. "I mean... I wish, I wish you hadn't seen, heard... But it's, we're friends, right? I hope, still? So, um. I mean, I would've told you. If you'd asked. It's not, like, a secret. About me. Not from my friends, anyway." 

Lance just sits a minute. He knows--he knew, when he heard, when he saw what JC was doing, he knew, well, what that meant. JC's... gay. That's the nice word for it, right? Okay, JC's gay. 

Lance isn't sure he can take the next step. Even though he thinks he knows, inside, what that step is. He shivers, and JC stands up again. "You're still cold." Lance is, even though the radiator's going full blast. "I'll get you some socks." 

Turning again from his suitcase, JC kneels in front of Lance and picks Lance's left foot up. "Jesus! No wonder you're shivering." Lance's skin is so cold he can barely feel JC's hands on him as he chafes Lance's foot, then rolls a sock carefully over it before moving on to the other. 

"Do you like it?" Lance asks, and then winces when JC looks up, questioning. But for all that Lance wants to disappear, wants to pretend he was asking about socks, or Germany, or being in the group, he can't keep himself from going on. He needs to know. "You said, you do it because it feels good," he mutters, getting the words out before he loses his nerve. "I just... does it? Not, um. Having it done to you, but doing it, too?" 

JC looks surprised. He puts Lance's foot down gently and sits back on his heels. Finally he answers, and his voice is soft. "Yeah. It does. I like it." He doesn't elaborate, just sits still, as if he's waiting for Lance to speak again. 

Finally, Lance sighs. "That's--that's good." He wraps the end of the bathrobe belt around his finger, careful not to look at JC as he continues. "I, do you remember, I said I wasn't a virgin? When we played that game?" 

JC nods. 

"Well, that was true. But--I didn't say this, but--um. I didn't really. Like it very much." Lance is blushing furiously. He can't believe he's telling JC this. He glances at JC, then away. 

JC is flushed too. He swallows hard and says, "Well, sometimes the first time..." He shrugs. "It's not always the best, you know?" 

Lance grimaces. "I know. I figured that was the problem." Then he's quiet for a long minute. Finally, he whispers, "I'm starting to think, maybe that wasn't it." 

JC looks at him a moment. "Well," he says again, "Maybe--I mean, you know, Lance, you're--I'm not saying this to be mean, but you're only 17. And not everybody--just because Joey's been Mr. Ladies' Man since he was old enough to walk, it doesn't mean--if you want to take things slower, it's not something to be ashamed of. Different people are, you know, _ready_ at different times. Maybe it's just not--" 

Lance can't help it. He just bursts out laughing. It's not scary like before, though; this laughter feels okay. "No," he says. "No, JC, being _ready_ isn't the problem." He's blushing so hard he must look like a tomato, but JC's smiling at him in that puzzled way of his. 

"You don't know," Lance explains. "I mean, ever since we got here--to Europe?--the billboards, the newspapers, the way people act just walkin' down the street--it's like, I'm lucky if there's one minute of the day when I'm _not_ thinking about sex. It's, um. It's so bad it gets embarrassing sometimes. Y'know?" 

JC's smile broadens, and he chuckles. "Oh." He doesn't look like he's laughing _at_ Lance, though, so it's okay. And Lance knows, he can _feel_ that JC won't tell anyone else about this. "Okay," JC says, getting to his feet and coming to sit beside Lance on the bed. Not touching, just side by side, companionable. "So, maybe you're ready now, but you weren't ready then? I mean, this girl--I'm sorry, I don't remember what you said her name was, but that was a while ago, right? Maybe it would be different now." 

Lance nods slowly. "Maybe. I was dancin' with a girl tonight--I mean, I liked it, she was, she felt good. I mean, not that I'd want to, you know, with someone I didn't even know--" He glances over at JC, looking for understanding, and gets a tense little shrug instead. 

Oh, shit. "I don't mean--" Lance stammers. "I mean, for me, that's not what I want. I'm not saying, about you, what you should--" 

JC sighs softly, maybe almost a gentle laugh. "That's okay, Lance. I'm not--I'm not going to apologize for what I do, but I'm not here to tell you that you should do the same thing. What's right for me--well, we're different people. We want different things. Fair?" 

"Yeah." Lance smiles in relief. He glances at JC, then looks down at the white socks on his feet. JC's socks. He bites his lip, hesitating. But with all that's been said already, it just seems he can't stop now. He focuses on his feet, his toes that are still cold but not _as_ cold anymore. Anything, not to have to look at JC face to face right now. "But, um, I've been thinking," he says. "I mean. Maybe what I want, you know, isn't really all that different." 

Lance listens to the radiator tick and tries to breathe as he waits for JC to say something. He's not really sure what to hope for. He's always refused to think much about this. About the things he likes. About what it might mean. Has that really changed? Does what happened tonight have to mean--have to make a difference? 

He got hard with that girl, with Margot. He wasn't thinking about boys then. 

JC clears his throat. "Why do you think that, Lance?" 

Lance sighs. Okay. At least JC isn't pretending not to know what he's talking about. "I, um. I just... I mean, is there a test or something? Can't I just... know?" The last word comes out almost a whisper. 

Lance can feel JC nod. He finally gets up the courage to lift his head and look at JC again. "Yeah, of course you can," JC says. "But, I just... I mean, we're here, away from everything, everyone--well, your mom's here, but still, like you said, everything's really different, and maybe--we're all working together all the time, maybe whatever you're feeling, maybe it's just, you know, what does Lou call it, the group dynamic?" 

Lance laughs. "The _group dynamic_ doesn't seem to stop Joey from hookin' up with a new girl in every city we're in," he points out. 

"Yeah, but you're not Joey, Lance. You're more private. Like you said, you wouldn't want, you know. A stranger." JC meets his eyes steadily. 

That's true enough. And maybe, well, JC might have a point; he does feel closer to the four of them than he does to friends he's known since kindergarten. 

Still, even thinking that, it feels like a cop-out. Lance closes his eyes, and he can see the images he thinks about, alone in the bathroom at night. They're not girls. Even when he was looking at that magazine, the girl on her stomach, he knows, some part of him was repainting the picture. Slimmer hips. Shorter hair. Less curve and more muscle. "I think it's more than that," he says softly. 

After a minute, JC speaks. "But this girl tonight? You said she was pretty, she made you feel..." 

Lance ducks his head in an embarrassed nod. "Yeah. But. I mean, she was--we were dancing, you know, and I was, uh, excited." Lance feels his face burning. "But not really interested. I think it was more, like, from being close. Just from touching. It wasn't like..." _You. It wasn't like you._

"So, did you, did she...?" 

"No! Oh, no. I had to... I left her there, on the dance floor, it was actually kinda rude of me, I know, but I just. I needed to be alone. I was. You know." Lance makes a slight gesture towards his lap, and JC bites his lip. 

"Is that, was that why you were in the bathroom? You were--" JC stops as if he doesn't want to say it, either. 

Lance shakes his head. "I wasn't, no, I didn't go in there to... jerk off," _oh my god, ohmygod,_ "I just needed to, um, calm down." He closes his eyes as he remembers what happened next. 

JC remembers too. "And then we came in there and... scared you to death, probably." He shakes his head wryly. "I'm sorry, Lance. Sorry you had to, I dunno, find out that way. It must have been upsetting." 

Lance swallows, hard. "I was just... surprised. It wasn't, I'm not, like, scarred for life or anything." He tries to smile, but it feels like a lie. He doesn't want to say this, but somehow he can't not. It doesn't seem honest, otherwise. Still, when he speaks, it's just a whisper. "It was actually. Kind of. Really, really hot." 

It takes all his courage to glance at JC. When he does, JC's staring down at his own hands, an intense look on his face. Lance thinks maybe this is the strangest situation he's ever been in. His mom always taught him to say the right thing, to be polite no matter what, but what do you say to your friend when you've just admitted that you got off on listening to him go down on a stranger in a bathroom? How do you find the words? 

"I'm sorry, JC." 

JC lets out his breath in a long _whoosh_. Finally, he glances over, and he looks as embarrassed as Lance. "No. It's." He rubs a hand through his short-cropped hair. "It's okay. I was just thinkin'. If the situation was reversed, or whatever. I would have thought it was hot, too." He rolls his eyes. "What a pervert." 

Lance giggles weakly. "Okay. That's okay. I mean, I guess we both are, or something." He covers his hot face with his hands for a second, then looks up again. "Um. What you asked me about, before?" He doesn't want to say it, just glances down at his own lap and wills JC to understand. "I didn't, with that girl, or after, in the bathroom. I just, I wanted to calm down so I could leave, you know?" 

JC nods. 

Lance licks his dry lips before he continues. "But then. When you. Um." He looks away from JC's face for a second. "I didn't even mean to, JC. But I--" He colors furiously. 

JC blinks several times, pressing his lips together. Finally he looks at Lance and gives a small nod. "Yeah. Um. I kind of thought, maybe I heard something." 

It's a good thing JC looks as embarrassed as he does, because if he didn't Lance would probably be dying of humiliation right about now. "It was so, just, unexpected. I didn't even realize--what I--until it was too late." He can't make a complete sentence about this, he can't. The verbs are all too embarrassing. 

"Did you, like, fall down or something? I thought I heard someone bump into the wall." 

"Oh, God. I'm so embarrassed," Lance mumbles. Then he takes a deep breath and bites the bullet. "I had to lose my shorts. That's probably what you heard." 

JC stares at Lance and blinks, again, slowly this time. "You--" He seems to choke a little. "You left? Um. Without?" For a split second his eyes drop to Lance's lap, the bathrobe pulled tight around his waist. JC's tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips, and suddenly Lance's embarrassment tilts a little as he lets himself reinterpret JC's reactions. 

Wow. _Wow._

"Yeah." A whisper. "It was. I was... a mess." His blood hammers in his ears. He reminds himself to breathe. 

When JC finally speaks again, his voice is husky and quiet. "I don't know what to--how to--" He shakes his head as if he still can't believe it, then starts over. "Did you really? Just from listening?" 

Lance nods, slowly. He's starting to hope, now. But he's still not sure. "Yeah. Pretty pathetic, huh? Or maybe just gross." 

"Uh, no." JC shifts beside him, crossing one leg up over the other. He folds his arms across his lap and leans forward a little. 

Lance knows why you sit like that. He's done it often enough in the last three months. JC. Turned on. By _him_. 

"It's not. I'm not--" JC takes a deep breath; stands up, taking a couple of quick, awkward steps away from the bed in the only direction the room allows. "This is really bad timing, but, Lance, I really like you. That probably sounds stupid, after... earlier, you know. But I--well. I didn't realize. That you might be... interested. I mean--that is what you're saying, right?" He looks at Lance, questioning, and Lance moves his head, just a fraction of a nod, but it's enough. "I guess I really misinterpreted, you know, how you feel about a lot of things." 

Lance shivers, and it's not from the cold this time. He stands up too, wanting--needing--to be on the same level as JC. He swallows. "I never thought, I guess I didn't want to think about it, about being... different, but..." He laughs, briefly. "Not wanting to think about what it meant, I guess--didn't really do a whole lot to keep me thinking about other things, you know?" 

JC still looks like he's not sure what to do. Where to stand, where to put his hands. He's clasping them in front of his body right now, kind of twisting them together. But he nods. Lance takes a step closer. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but this whole night has been so crazy, it's like some kind of mirror universe where everything's the opposite of what it usually is, and he's afraid if he doesn't say the right thing now, doesn't try _something_ , he may never have the guts or the chance again. 

"JC..." 

JC looks at him. Lance takes a breath. _You'll never know unless you try._ Somehow he doesn't think his mom had this situation in mind. "Would you--could I--" he starts. He can't look at JC's eyes anymore. Focuses on his mouth instead. His mouth... "Would you mind brushing your teeth?" 

Lance stops. Claps a hand over his own mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry. I mean--I just, I wasn't, um." He's blushing again. But, dang, he wants to--and he doesn't want to be thinking about-- 

JC shakes himself a little. "Oh. Um." He blushes too. Lance has never realized before tonight how easily JC blushes. "Sure. I'll--just a minute--" He rummages in his shaving kit, then looks at Lance a second before ducking out the door. "Right back--" over his shoulder. 

Lance stands in the middle of the tiny room, his heart pounding. Did he really just-- Yes. He did. He's not going to play these games anymore, he tells himself. He's not going to run away this time. He walks over to the window, where condensation is forming, the heat from the radiator meeting the cold glass. _Get a grip_ , he tells himself sternly, and then nearly dissolves into giggles again at the image that conjures up. 

He's still standing there when the door opens again. JC's face is wet, and he drops his toothbrush onto the small bedside table. "So... I'm back," he says, looking around the room quickly, then back at Lance. "And, um. I'm sorry. About before. I mean, it's... Kind of tacky. Did you, did you want--" His hands are twisting again, long fingers wrapping around each other. 

He's nervous. JC's nervous. _Lance_ is making JC nervous. 

Somehow that settles Lance down, helps him breathe--well, _close_ to normally again. He turns from the window, takes the two steps that are separating them. "I wanted to ask," he says, drawing on every reserve of manners he's had drilled into him since he was in diapers, "if--JC, I really like you. A lot. And, could I, would you mind if I kissed you?" His voice doesn't even shake when he asks the question. 

JC doesn't answer for a second, just looks at Lance, blue eyes wide. He stops twisting his fingers, drops his hands to his sides, and then says softly, "I'd like that." 

Lance takes a quick breath and steps up closer to JC, almost touching now, and leans forward slowly. He feels hypersensitive, like he's taking in sensory information through every pore: how JC smells, like smoke and beer and fresh toothpaste; how he sounds, his breathing rapid and shallow; how he looks, nervous and dazed, about like Lance thinks he must look himself. Just before their mouths meet, Lance lets his eyes drift shut. 

Lance presses his mouth against JC's, and it's warm and soft. Sweet. Then JC is kissing him back, his lips moving against Lance's, gently but with an undercurrent of urgency that Lance can't ignore. Lance feels something lurch inside his chest, and he reaches out, holding onto JC's upper arms at first, then sliding his hands lower, down JC's sides and around to his back, pulling him closer as they kiss. A second later, JC's hands come up to hold Lance's waist, fingers tangling in the flannel robe. 

There's warm wetness against his lips, and JC's tongue slides into his mouth, licking across his front teeth carefully. _So good._ Then Lance hears a growl, feels it in his mouth, and it takes a second for him to realize it's JC, it's that noise Lance heard back at the club, low and sexy in the back of JC's throat. He answers it with a growl of his own, and slides a hand up to hold the back of JC's neck as they kiss. 

It's nothing like any kiss he's experienced before. The gentleness is still there, but Lance can feel the power behind it. JC's stubble scrapes the corner of his mouth, and Lance thinks his knees may give out. If there had been any question before about whether this was what he wanted, it's gone for good now. He holds JC tighter, pressing close, and all he can feel is muscle, strong flat chest against his, JC's hands flexing at his waist, and, God, JC's hard-- 

This time it's Lance making the sound first, something like a whimper but it's not pain; it's _hunger_. To his own surprise he doesn't feel the slightest hesitation. He's not even thinking anymore, really; just images going through his mind, images and sensation. Need. He shifts against JC, rubbing, grinding; his fingers clenching in JC's hair, nails digging in. There's the briefest instant where everything seems to freeze in place, and then JC pulls him tighter, harder, hips and hands and mouth answering Lance's demand and adding their own. 

It's beyond good. Maybe he _will_ burn in hell for this, but right now Lance thinks that sounds like a pretty damn good deal. As long as he can keep going. When JC rocks against him, he sees stars. It's a good thing he came once already tonight, because otherwise his pants would be soaked now for sure. As it is, he's trembling again, shuddering as desire pulses through him in time with JC's hips. Without conscious thought, his hands go to JC's waist, tugging at his shirt, desperate for the touch of skin on skin. He manages to bare a small patch above JC's hip and he groans, flattening his hand over it a moment before pulling at the fabric again, trying to get the shirt off without losing contact for even a second. 

When he's tugged JC's shirt completely free at the waist, he slides both hands inside and starts pulling the fabric up. JC pulls back a little, his mouth wet and panting, to ask--"Lance, should we--is this--should we slow down a little?" But even as he's gasping the words his hands are sliding under the flannel lapels of the bathrobe and slipping inside. Lance trembles as JC's fingers move outward from his waist, stroking up his sides, so hot that Lance thinks they must be burning marks into his skin. 

Lance shakes his head. "No--no, please, _please_ \--" He makes himself shift back just far enough to shuck the bathrobe off his shoulders and toss it to the floor, his self-consciousness gone, at least for the moment. Reaching again for JC's shirt, he pulls it up by the hem, and with JC's cooperation has it quickly over his head and off. When they're both stripped to the waist the reality of the situation hits Lance, and for a second he almost wonders if it can be true, if this can really be happening... and then he just sends up a heartfelt prayer of thanks, takes JC by the hand, and pulls him to the bed. 

Lance sits down and JC follows, cupping one hand to Lance's face and kissing him again, then tracing down, drawing a trail of heat over Lance's shoulder, down his back, then around to palm his belly. Lance holds his breath, embarrassed again at his softness where JC is nothing but muscle. But JC doesn't seem to mind. "God," JC whispers, bending to kiss Lance's throat, and Lance moans, shuddering when JC's lips close over his collarbone. "That okay?" he asks, warm breath on damp skin, and Lance can feel him smile at Lance's fervent, "Uh-huh." 

They end up tangled on the bed, Lance on his back, with JC draped over him, kissing and kissing. Lance can't stop touching JC's face, licking his chin, scraping teeth gently over stubble, grinning when JC makes that noise low in his throat. 

Lance thinks his skin is going to catch on fire where JC's touching him. His shoulders, his chest. JC rasps his tongue over Lance's nipple, and Lance arches up off the bed, a heartbeat from exploding. The damp khakis are like sandpaper on his dick, excruciating and arousing at the same time. "You like that?" JC purrs, turning his head to the other side, and Lance closes his eyes and tries to ride out the waves of pleasure. It's so much better than he imagined. 

He can't take it for long, though. And he doesn't want to come yet, doesn't want this to end. JC looks a little startled when Lance gasps, pushing him away, but Lance mutters, "Please--I need to--" and JC lets Lance shift him over, the two of them coordinating to stay on top of the narrow mattress. 

When JC's on his back, Lance sits still a second, just looking at him. Unbelievable. That's the only word for it, for this whole night. "You're--amazing, JC," he breathes, leaning in for another kiss before moving lower, tasting JC's throat, down to his chest. 

Oh. Oh yes. Tang of salt and something deeper, more complex. Something that Lance can feel in the back of his throat, that spirals into his nose and brain, heady like liquor. Lance licks over the flat planes of JC's chest, tentative at first, but what JC did to him felt so good, he has to think JC would like it just as much. And there's nothing he wants more than to make JC feel good. He sucks gently at one flat nipple, tracing the rough edges, the softness within. The tiny bead of the tip, hard under his tongue. "Lance," JC sighs, and his fingers close around Lance's shoulders. "God. Yes." 

Lance smiles at the need in JC's voice and licks a path over to JC's other nipple. He can't get enough of the feel, the taste of JC's skin. The way JC is writhing under him is hot, so hot. Lance closes his eyes, mouth still working at JC's chest, as JC traces his fingers over Lance's face: his eyebrows, his cheeks, his ears. 

Finally JC lifts his body in a graceful arc beneath Lance, and pulls at Lance's shoulders. "C'mere," he gasps breathlessly. Lance scrambles up the bed, into JC's waiting arms, and then they're kissing again, their bodies fitted together, rubbing instinctively, hips straining against each other, hot and hard. Lance can't believe how good it feels, how much better it feels to press himself against someone else-- _JC_ \--than against his own hand. It's not even like he's never had sex before, but God. This. This is so different. 

He understands, suddenly, why everyone talks about sex. _This_ is how it's supposed to feel. He sends a silent apology out to Betty Lynn Cunningham, because he knows it can't have been this good for her, either. Then JC is turning them again, holding tight to Lance so neither of them falls off the bed. When Lance is lying on his back once more, JC flashes a wicked grin and throws one leg over him, lifting himself up to straddle Lance's hips. Without even meaning to, Lance moans and arches up, seeking the pressure of JC's hard weight against his throbbing erection. JC leans over him slightly, bracing himself with his hands on the bed above Lance's shoulders. 

Lance's breath catches in his throat at the intensity of JC's look. He's danced in front of audiences of more than a thousand people, but he's never felt so much attention focused on _him_. He feels self-conscious, suddenly, looking up at JC's beautiful body, long and lean and hard above him. He drops his eyes closed for a second, overwhelmed. Then he feels JC's hand stroking down his chest, gently, reverently, and it's all he can do not to whimper. 

JC leans down and kisses Lance's panting mouth. This kiss is different, harder, more aggressive, and Lance knows he's not going to last much longer. His hips lift again, pressing up against JC, and then he yelps as the sensitive head of his dick catches against the seam in the crotch of JC's pants. He jerks back and looks down, trying to figure out what in the world is going on. 

Oh. It would be funny if it didn't hurt like hell. He's so hard that his dick is nudging its way up past his waistband. He can see the rosy head trapped against his belly, poking up out of his pants like some obscene turtle coming out of its shell. He reaches down to adjust himself, embarrassed beyond belief, but JC catches his hand. 

"No," JC gasps. "Lance. Let me." And then JC is pushing Lance's thighs apart, moving back to settle between his legs, and reaching for Lance's belt all at the same time. It's so hot that Lance just drops his head back and thinks he's going to die. JC works fast. He unfastens the belt buckle and leans over to unzip Lance's pants, but before he even pulls the zipper all the way down he bends his head over Lance's crotch. Lance feels the slickhot glide of JC's tongue over the tip of his dick, and he feels it against his stomach at the same time, and before he can warn JC he's bucking up and shooting, jolts of heat shuddering through him and out. 

" _Oh_... oh... God, I'm sorry," Lance moans, lightning still sparking behind his eyes. It's so good. So good. His face is burning; he doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see the mess he's made. Twice in one night, it _is_ like being back in junior high. 

"Don't--" The word is breathed hot against his skin, and JC's tongue is behind it, soft and wet and eager-- _oh, God_ \--and Lance _has_ to look then. 

JC's looking back up at him, hair mussed, eyes wide and dark, his tongue working on Lance's belly, licking, his face wet with Lance's... with Lance's... 

Lance's eyes fall closed. He's died. That's the only explanation. He's died and gone to heaven--and apparently his church really, _really_ misinterpreted God's position on sex. JC's tongue slides into Lance's navel, tasting and teasing, and Lance shudders again, feeling the touch all the way down to his bones. 

JC doesn't stop until he's worked steadily, thoroughly, all the way back up Lance's stomach and chest, and Lance just lies there through it all, his heart slowly coming back to earth. When JC reaches Lance's throat, he stops, settling himself carefully on his side, lips gentle just below Lance's jaw. 

It takes Lance a minute to realize that JC's... done? Or, no. Lance blinks, focuses. JC's eyes are still on him. Still hungry. But waiting. "JC?" Lance tilts his head, confused, trying to reach JC's mouth, kiss-- 

Oh. 

Lance takes a breath; shifts down, over. Facing JC, eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. There's a shiny smear on JC's cheek, another over one eyebrow, and Lance sends up a quick prayer to that new, improved God before leaning in to taste JC's mouth again. 

It's not so bad. A little weird, kind of bitter. JC moans, though, his arms sliding tight around Lance, and the heat of the kiss burns away everything else. JC's hips push forward, and Lance wants to grind against him in return, but it's too soon, he's too sensitive. He slides his hand down instead, tracing the muscles of JC's stomach, then fumbling with the button on JC's pants. It seems like it takes forever, but finally he's got the zipper down and his fingers slip inside, JC arching into his touch, growling as he shivers. "Lance--" The word prickles heat over Lance's skin, and he strokes down, carefully, hoping what he likes will feel good to JC. 

JC's shorts are damp, Lance can feel the slickness against the back of his hand, and somehow that tactile proof of JC's arousal helps Lance settle down. Or maybe settle down isn't the right way to put it, since he's starting to get hard again. "Is this okay?" he whispers, rocking his hand, down lower to where he can feel coarse crinkles of hair, then back up, around the head where more slick moisture eases his way. It feels different, touching someone else like this. So much like himself, only not. 

"Please--" It sounds so good. JC's looking at him again, that intense look that makes Lance want to lie back and moan. He squeezes a little tighter, then lets go just long enough to bring his hand to his mouth and lick before wrapping his fingers around JC again, trying to read JC's movements to find the rhythm he needs. 

JC whimpers at the contact, pushing his hips forward. Lance tightens his grip as he strokes down, and JC shudders against him, burying his face in the crook of Lance's neck. Lance feels JC everywhere, all around him: his breath hot against Lance's chest, the rough rhythm of his thrusts jolting Lance's body, the smooth friction of his dick in Lance's hand, skin on skin. It's hot, so damn hot. Lance ducks his head to kiss JC's forehead, the only part of his face within reach, and buries his nose in JC's hair. God. Everything about him feels so good. Lance wants to touch him all over, to breathe him in, taste him... everywhere. 

The thought rockets through Lance like electricity, and he knows, _knows_ , that sometime--soon--he's going to have JC in his mouth. He practically sees it, sees himself on his knees in front of JC, and that thought is so hot that he hisses and has to close his eyes against the image. "JC--" he whispers, and JC lifts his face blindly from Lance's shoulder, his mouth open and panting. Lance slides his lips across JC's, kissing him sloppily, hungrily. He pushes in with his tongue, thrilling at the sound of JC's answering groan. Then he coaxes JC's tongue into his mouth and sucks it gently, mirroring the motion of his hand, below. 

JC growls then, his hips starting to buck harder, and brings a hand up to Lance's face, fingers splayed across his cheek. He strokes across to Lance's mouth and then pushes in, slowly, two fingers in Lance's mouth along with JC's tongue. Lance sucks and licks at JC's fingers, half-crazed with the feel of his mouth full of--filled by--JC. It'll be like this, like this. Only better. 

Lance is so hot for it that he almost forgets about his own hand moving on JC until he feels JC's body jerk backwards, then strain forward, against Lance's hip. Lance jacks down once more, hard, and then JC's dick is pulsing against his palm and his wrist is covered in slippery wet heat. He catches some of it on his fingers and strokes down again, meeting JC's second thrust, slick and messy. JC throws his head back as he finishes, baring his throat, and Lance looks down, over JC's heaving chest, to watch as he brings JC the rest of the way off. 

JC falls back on the mattress, panting, moaning, his fingers grasping at Lance's wrist, pulling Lance's hand away and then lacing their sticky fingers together against his chest. His eyes are closed, and Lance just looks, watches, too amazed to know how to feel. They're a mess, now, both of them. JC still has stuff dried on his face, and Lance is into it past his wrist, and he feels it cooling against his belly and even his chest and he figures it's probably on his pants... and he just doesn't care. 

He should care. He's got to get cleaned up. Get back to his room. Anyone could come looking for him; Justin, his mom. And the bathroom is a lot further down the hall than he'd like. 

But none of that matters right now. Not even the nightmare spectre of a fire alarm going off, all of them ending up on the street, the guys and two moms and Lou and the rest of the city--he imagines all of it and all he can do is grin like an idiot. When he adds the BMG executives to the picture, he starts to giggle, and JC opens his eyes. 

"What?" 

There's concern in his voice, and Lance kisses him, quickly, reassuring. "Nothin'. I'm fine. I was just..." Lance shakes his head. It's too goofy to explain. "I'm so happy," he says. "You--God, JC." He feels... open. Free. Empty and full at the same time. 

JC smiles and kisses him back. "Wow," he breathes. "That was... wow. I was... you're really okay?" 

Lance laughs. He thinks he might be okay--better than okay--for the first time in a long time. 

  
***  


He does end up freaking out a little bit. But it's not until later. The next morning, in the shower, really alone for the first time since, and he's soaping himself and all of a sudden he can't catch his breath, has to lean against the tiled wall for a minute until he gets himself under control. Sex. He had sex, amazing sex, sex with a guy, _with JC_ , and it was so good the only thing he can worry about is how soon they can do it again. Do more. 

He dresses carefully, trying to hide the bruises on his neck, but the minute his mom sees him at breakfast her eyes widen slightly. She doesn't say anything, though, and it's not until after their radio station interview, when they're all back at the hotel with a couple hours off for lunch before afternoon rehearsals, that she pulls him aside into the room she's sharing with Lynn. "Lance," she says, her voice low, "are you, is there anything you want to talk about?" 

He feels himself blushing but meets her eyes. Shakes his head. 

It seems like she looks at him forever before she speaks again. But finally the corner of her mouth turns up and she nods. "Okay, honey. I know, you're too old to have to tell your mama everything." She hugs him tight for a second, then lets go. "Your dad and I are very proud of you, Lance," she says, as he stares at her, startled. "We know you'll make good decisions. Even when we're not around." She means what she's saying, he can tell, and there's a clear warning in her words, too. 

He blinks, trying to figure out what he can say, what he should say. The words are in his mouth, ready to tell her, _Mama, it wasn't some stranger, it was--_ but he swallows them back down. It's not his secret alone. And, underneath that, a little part of him isn't ready, either. Not yet. He knows she loves him, will love him no matter what, but it's still not simple. He needs to figure it out for himself first. So he hugs her back and kisses her cheek and tells her he'll do his best. 

Soon, though, he thinks. Soon. 

In the meantime, he's praying JC will have the single again tonight. 

  
***  


On the way to the venue that night, the van passes a billboard advertising some kind of soda. Justin hoots, craning his neck to get a better view of the nearly naked bodies splayed three stories high across the side of a building. 

Lance looks up at the two guys, each with one hand on the girl and the other hand holding a bottle, tipping them so the clear liquid spills toward her smiling face, her open mouth. The men are slim, muscled, handsome. Lance grins and closes his eyes, seeing JC's face, flushed and sweaty. He's hard again; he stays that way through the warm-up and the first few songs. 

It's embarrassing, and awkward. And it doesn't really bother him. 

**End.**


End file.
